"roasts" poems
i like Sunday dinner a proper Sunday roast
this it is my favorite dish the one i like the most
looking at beef as it roasts away
sat there in oven in the baking in its tray
eating all the veg roasties and the mash
a proper Sunday dinner a proper Sunday bash
making up the gravy for a little pour
ad a little bit then a little more
then there is the pudding looking very nice
my favorite one of all a lovely bowl of rice
i love Sunday dinner a proper Sunday roast
my very favorite dinner the one i like the most
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
Western Sources
Mist, rain and snowmelt gather
And soak the Montana crests.
A trio of rivulets carves the slopes,
Grow to rivers that braid into a single course
And the Missouri is born at Three Forks.
Shoshone and Hidatsu rest from the hunt,
Kneel and cup their hands
To raise life giving liquid to their lips
While horses bow beside them
Bellies filled with the refreshing waters.
The river flows north dividing the tall grasslands,
Plunges over the cataracts at Great Falls,
Churns on the rocks below
And drives inexorably toward the sea.
Mandan and Sioux
Soft flute sounds drift from the Mandan village
Intertwining with the riffling music of the river.
By its banks a coarse French trapper roasts a rabbit
To share with his Shoshone child-bride.
Sacagawea sings softly beside him -
Charboneau's son stirring in her womb.
Sioux warriors on horseback
Stand guard by the shores.
How many travelers have passed?
How many are yet to come?
Beyond the rolling hills
A buffalo stumbles and falls
Pierced by Lakota arrows and spears.
Boats in the Water
At River du Bois where the Missouri
Collides with the Mississippi,
Forty men slip into boats and take to the oars
To interpret Jefferson’s continental dream -
Their keelboat laden with sustenance,
Herbs, weapons and powder.
They carry trinkets to dazzle the natives
And cast bronze medals to give them
Bearing images of their "Father in Washington"
That none had asked to have.
May, 2004
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:42 AM UTC
winters day getting a tan in my yard
i can feel the ocean of the spring breeze
taste its intoxicating salt and sand on the air
feel its breathtaking beauty as the sea washes up on me
only a few hundred feet through that tangle of palms and
tangles of quick brush
lay wide open lush sands
and forever summers soft light
and the beautiful breaking waves
in staunch hand needed but the
deeply tanned smile on the old mans face
as he holds out a greeting and offer to run out to your skiff
but you'd rather swim
at last the days full face comes to bear
a hippie family roasts hot dogs in a pit fire
and you share some white wine
music plays from a transistor radio
that has seen better days
but this is the land of forever summer
and nothing can taint the smile you share
with your lover
nothing can touch the soul deep
expression of joys
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 2:23 PM UTC
We fed ourselves on New Year's well
Gifts were exchanged over the song The First Noel
The evening before Christmas drinks were had
Many fooling themselves that they are glad
Throughout the cheer, men, women, and children in Yemen forgotten
Leftover turkeys and roasts would be hurriedly eaten even if found rotten
Starvation has Yemeni bodies eating themselves
Have you seen photos of their emaciated figures on newspapers' shelves
Pregnant women and newborn babies with dead husbands and dead fathers
How do they care for themselves when in the grand scheme of things no one bothers
Saudi military should go **** on themselves
Murderous cowards that they are playing with Santa's elves
Women in Yemen being ***** and domestic violence bring me to tears
Would they get away with their satanic work if the U.S. wasn't kissing their filthy rears
Seriously dangerous diseases running rampant
Yemenis beautiful skin no longer so lambent
So few of us care enough to choke up for our Ahmeds and for our Imans
I ask infuriatingly will it take a whole country's destruction to rise for Yemen's Marwans
Jan 2, 2019
Jan 2, 2019 at 10:45 PM UTC
No second chances!
No do-overs!
That is one of the regreatable rules of time.
No more pigtails & pretty dresses,
No more Horsey-back & Piggy-back rides,
No more Tee-ball & Soccer,
No more Marry Poppens & Wizard of OZ,
No more Popcorn & Video games,
No more homework & bed time stories,
No more marshmellow roasts & snipe hunts,
No more sand castles & sand dollars,
No more Sparklers & Pinwheels.
No time to pause & reflect!
It can only cause regret!
Enjoy it along the way while you can.
Everything is temporary.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
ching, ching
Two men walk into a local cafe.
A city boy, and a Townsman
The cityboy sports
Slicked up hair.
Blue button up shirt,
Grey slacks.
Dress shoes.
The townsman simpler.
Brown hair.
Orange T-shirt,
cargo pants.
Work boots.
"Hey there!" Says the city boy.
walking up to the counter.
"Do you ladies have different roasts of coffee?
Or do you have just one kind?"
The Register girl looks at him sideways.
"What are you talking about?"
"I want a black light roast if you have it. Also, two shots over ice."
He hands her his travel mug.
"What's this for?"
The girl fondles the travel mug.
"I'd like my coffee in that please."
The manager puts a hand to the girls shoulder.
"The house coffee is a light roast doll, give him that."
"Cream and sugar?" Asks the register girl.
"Oh god, please no." Laughs the city boy "Thank you."
Handing over a credit card.
The register girl does not understand
what is so funny about cream and sugar.
"Cash?" Says the manager.
"Is there an atm? I can only offer this, but I know how to change that if you point me in the right direction."
"No ATM. We just Offer a discount for cash, we'll take your card." Says the manager.
The city boy waits for his drinks.
The townsman, walks up and says
"Coffee, please"
The manager hands him a paper cup with coffee, cream, and sugar.
He pays them in cash.
smiles, nods. Says: "Thank you"
Then waits for the city boy.
"Here's your sippy cup."
Says the register girl.
Handing over his travel mug.
The city boy stands there waiting patiently.
"Are you waiting for something?"
"Yes. my two shots over ice?"
"Oh I put it in there."
"Could I have two shots over ice please? I'll pay for it again if you forgot."
"Oh we don't have an espresso machine.
Our shots are like a syrup."
"Oh... Is there syrup in here?
I just wanted two shots over ice."
"Well like... I mean our prices are so low anyway, it's no big deal, but we don't have an espresso machine so..."
"Sorry" says the manager.
"Thank you ladies." Says the townsman.
The cityboy grabs the townsmans hand.
They leave the Cafe.
The city boy sips his
Botched coffee.
"I've had good, bad, and know what I want.
I don't want to be seen as difficult because I'm educated."
He tolerates it.
The townsman sips his
Familiar Coffee.
"Sometimes ignorance is bliss."
He enjoys it.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 10:31 PM UTC
I've drank a thousand beers
I've smoked a million cigarrettes
I've ate at least a hundred Twix bars
I've watched Breakfast at Tiffany's hours on end
I've flirted with every male waiter that brings me
unfulfilling dish after unfulfilling dish
I've bought weekly **** dark outfits
and I've spent my life savings
on beautiful MAC make-up and a new Legacy
and pumps I think you'd like
I've gotten my hair colored every color I can think of
I've tried being an apathetic punk, an upbeat cowgirl,
a wide-eyed polyanna, a harsh madonna, a fuck-you-feline,
an emotionally charged marilyn, and a classy Diane
I've memorized witty jokes, and roasts, and rivetting last lines
I've modeled and sang and became an athlete
I've played hard to get, I've played easy and teasy
And I've twirled my hair and crossed my legs
and learned to walk while swaying my hips
I've ran miles and kilometers and meters and
I've lifted weights and done zumba and yoga and hiked and biked and
****
There's no comfort and no getting to you.
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 1:10 PM UTC
How sweet it is
Melon
Cactus breeze
The sticky sweet flavors coating my lungs
Drowning out her laugh
Focusing on his smile
They all know my name
Say it with enthusiasm
Protest loudly when I say I have to leave
I stay an extra hour
But none of them really notice
They are too busy
Her laugh is all his smile sees
All my lips do is paint a smile
And take another hit
I am not alone in my chain smoking
This is a two person caterpillar
One with history
We stay put that extra hour of mine
Close together on that couch
Smoke hiding us from everyone
The lights are dimmed
We are alone
Nothing happens
We talk and talk
For what seems like hours
Though it’s only one
My head rests on their chest
As I take another hit
Their arm lays comfortably over me
All of this is familiar
None of it feels wrong
Yet it isn’t as everything belongs
We speak like the old friends we are
No hidden lust
Just real words in a world of smoke
I no longer care what his smile sees
I am happy where I am
Talking of past adventures
Another comes in
Says they’re leaving
We both protest loudly
Plans are said to be made then
We all want to invite his smile
But not her laugh
I don’t feel guilty for my thoughts
I am allowed to have them
To act on them
Her pale skin in the harsh light
I can barely understand
What power she holds over him
But some how I hold similar
I happen to not try to wreck friendships
As she already attempted
The maturity that our host shows
Is astounding
He didn’t win but still stands
We all are proud of him though
Even if some are unaware
Of the battle that occurred
He made it! He made it!
All of us gathered here to celebrate
Our hosts accomplishment
The roasts that occurred
Bring smiles to everyone's face
Even my painted on smiles turn true
This group
Even if I am new
Feels like home
I’m comfortable staying on the couch with old friends
Or venturing out with new ones
Staying put by one’s self is accepted as well
I can’t believe this group is leaving
I am one of the few who will stay
They all will be moving away
For now we all relish each other
Those of us who have known one another for forever
Or those who have just met
These summer nights will be some of the best of our lives
Laughter mixing with
Hookah smoke
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Feel the chains change in me tonight
Condense me to evaporate in want
The long of a bounce to another world
Light the fire to burn deep and fervour
A belly roasts in repetitive embers flushes
Hearts tied connate as the essence flashes
A tangle ribboned to last after the dawn
Testify as our sparks infinitely ignite dances
Titaniums of our tectonic plates merge motions
A convergence entwined in bordered emotions
Link me in the convections of transformations
Conversations of a lasting warm benevolence
Paradisiacal chum of a past in resonance
A photographic collection of a lived long life
Unwrap the snare, unwind the erased tapes
Lay back as we hide away behind the moonlight
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
I called to give you a rearrangement of irony and a bucket full of Jews, I tailor made a rebreather because the past connections were used . Indeed, just like a crossview that encouraged stars to collapse, then did a fix up for the X's and O's so every oxymoron followed with a laugh. A pail of shrubs, an ounce of yore, yesterday you were following your very own bated breath. Up until you challenged yourself to a duel, you didn't look so bad for a disastrous mess. Harms' Way could be the place in town where odds go to get even, or it could be the street where Blow-Pops aren't just made, but also handed out to toothless citizens. We the captured, please and thank you, sir and mam until our captors go, like if you imagine The Godfather in The Graduate, describing how the Komodo dragon roasts. We haven't made it thru a single day since they've come in packs of seven, but today we'll have the chance to share some face time with the hours that we are being given.
Misty-eyed, mournful, and very sorry walked in separately from the yard. They drank cold-filtered PBR and joked about all the kids they may have fathered. Has it been four weeks or just four days, since the Ferguson, Missouri Captain resigned his post? I was always taught that for a captain to go out, he or she must go down with their boat.
In time where boredom lays around with dynamite by the loads, tomorrow remind me of the basorexia I've had since we met not long ago.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 2:39 AM UTC
Well, I've written two . . . sonnets . .
first ones from the point of view of a typical twit youngish bloke . when he realises his latest conquests a bit keen like . . . He writes a poem . . . Leaves it lying around carelessly
So I'm to meet .your mum and dad ? . . .
But I thought this . a one time **** . . .
Not children planned or Sunday roasts
I dreamt no champagne wedding toasts . . . !
They're coming round for tea . . tonight ?. . .
This ***** no longer feeling right . . !
In epic terms this now's a fail . !
I think . it's time for me to bail !!
Though . . something sparkled in your kiss,
A luscious tingling of lips . .
Add alcoholic lust fuelled hips
Whose groovy moves I know I'd miss . .
So . . . If I meet your mum and dad .
Then that gets me . . another ****
She finds the poem . . And replies . . .
Dear silly boy . who left behind
His hopeful sentimental rhyme . . .
Who fancies meeting mum and dad
Just to secure another **** . . .
Well pretty boy . . KEEP DREAMING ON . . .
Since any chance you had . . has gone,
I found your rhyme upon the floor . .
Now ******* closed . . as is my door
It's such a shame . . you'll never know
How far down I can really go . .
Nor that my naughty little hand
Is worth your golden wedding band
My poet lad . . you've well derailed
All future chance . . of getting nailed
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
It sits expectantly on the peg in the dim hallway
just above the miniature blackberry stained walking cane,
waiting to be pulled over that wonderful head
reigning-in errant silver, bushy brows framed.
In the pub in a cloud of smoke,
a pint of beer next to half a Guinness,
just up the road from a market stall
where it waited
A million Christmases ago.
Hide and seek,
bobbing along the top of the untrimmed hedge.
Coming or going – no difference
happiness wherever it goes.
Straining against the South Westerly
soaked in ocean rain
longs for the shoulder-carry from the beach and silly songs
sweat pouring, Friday fish and chips, tea in the ***
Radio 4, crosswords and roasts.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
A sound like none you’ve ever heard
Is Gulda on the clavichord:
Sublime and strange, the player roasts
The music of the land of ghosts.
O.O
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3KD2RlcEkPY
Oct 24, 2015
Oct 24, 2015 at 2:23 PM UTC
Have you been searching for that perfect gift?
Want to say something special, give someone a lift?
Are you popping the question? Is it someone's birthday
But you're just not quite sure of the right words to say?
Is the one that you love feeling lonely or sick?
If a card or a letter just won't do the trick...
Pick up the phone call Poetically Correct
With our help, you'll achieve the desired effect
Just give us some details, and in a short time
You can send someone special, a gift that's sublime
Anniversaries ~ Apologies ~ Any Occasion ~ Baby Dedications ~ Bachelor/Bachelorette Party ~ Birth Announcements ~ Condolences ~ Congratulations ~ Eulogies ~ Father's Day ~ Get Well ~ Graduation ~ Holidays ~ Love ~ Proposals ~Reunions ~ Roasts ~ Secret Admirer ~ Special Friend ~ Surprise ~ Tell 'Em Off ~ Told U So ~ Valentines ~ You Name It
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
I would be a better god
than this god
I can rule her out completely
were I your god
I would not rest
even on her Sunday roasts, "no fricken way"
there would be no commandments
no sacrifice of your children
no denial of self
no crusades of hatred
no hypocrisy
no eternal damnation
So for the love of god
dethrone this tyrant
free yourselves you ******* idots
I am your man dogg, not her
or ******* Her, or whoever THE **** was ******* her...!
Meh!
As you can see I'm passionate about this
and I don't mince my meat sometimes
but **** we're all sick it
********
Let me be your crutch in hard times
but be stronger quick,
cause I got better **** to be doing
Thanks for your vote
and hey girls
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:32 AM UTC
mostly undiagnosed ghosts host coast roasts
and no one shows
haunted wind blows going slow
dethroning grown men being sown
unknown gnomes debone stones
throwing plumbs at scrub jays
whilst listless fitness ****** insist
on resisting mystic visions
implicitly –
ragtag gag gifts for bags
smoking **** with saggy pants
chancing protagonists
and prancing fisters
wrist rocket **** pocket
time, clock it
rock it sock it
don’t mock
interlocking bicarbonates
wait for the ingrate to **********
and regulate the regurgitation –
****** ancestrally protestors
digest their disgust
discussing muskrats as lab cats
basking in the glow of white coats –
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Went to see the pastor,
he invited me for tea,
a general pleasant conversation,
covered all the room,
we chatted for a while,
and then I made smile,
I asked him "Sir, what's for tea",
He grinned real wide,
and said to me,
" sweet lady, we are having a roast",
and then I said to he,
What is the roast to be today?
He smiled back as he replied,
remnants of the lord who'd died,
"what on earth said I"?
So I smiled back and chuckled a bit,
would we, really roast the holy ghost,
he nodded bowing his head,
"Sweet lady, we are having Fred"
"Who on earth is Fred"? I said,
"Well milady",
"Fred is the chicken, that scratched in the yard,
who made conversation with the bard,
while, scratching for worms"
"More filling than the holy ghost,
chicken ,tastes a whole lot better than most other roasts"
So,
the vicar or pastor, whichever you care, picked up his chopper after brushing his hair,
dashed into the yard to catch hold of Fred,
Fred didn't fancy being dinner,
so he'd already fled.
(C) Livvi
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Weird in his outfits of a late ragamuffin
Reflecting strength of character and soul toughness
Contrasted by dreadlocks on his pykitonic head
Giving him a look of an African amorous ogre,
In the tough stunt for *** with a tectonic girl,
Veneered by mastery of his pen and keyboard
Following after his *** starved ancestor
The muzhik; Vladimir Nabokov the ****** lover,
Swimming in enviable freedom to *********
Afro-English words in his road to the burning church
That barely roasts the peasants for tribal reasons,
A ****** ground for Mochama’s humour
That will hold you glued and captive to the pages
Until the he goat of Abagusii goes through
The second round of its ****** act
Basically forming education for Smitta
The smitten rock of African literature.
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 6:11 AM UTC
The whiteness of the milky way
witness your name invariably
in the corner of chaos and order
Inside fragments of settled sediments
There are words that I await
to stream from the fountain
the base of the veined heart
Inside a core to be uncovered
Phrases that wish to be whispered
the nudges of intentions held back
collapsed and clasped in a clap
the ribboned truth that fades
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Pronouns and nouns of love and hate
Proverbs of the scent of your breath
The Jasmine that roasts your tongue
Let it's smell infuse my jumbled being
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Taboos and tattoos of eternal love
Traffic and tarmacs of the road travelled
The lavender that seduces your mind
Let it transfuse my animate system
Tell the tales of the indelible ounces
Songs and secrets of the bright sighs
Sums and seams of endurance
The cinnamon that spices your life
Let your kiss evaporate in my mist mouth
Tell tales of the indelible ounces
Nuances and notes of our untold story
Novices and nemesis of the unnamed race
The rose that savours your sweetness
Let your hands caress and weaken
As you tell the tales in indelible ounces
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 6:03 PM UTC
You walk like your shoes are made of coals.
Restless,
dancing on your toes as you waltz
between the window
and the kitchen.
chiseling a weak smile between sallow cheeks.
You're wiping loose strands of auburn from your lips,
tucking them back into your greasy visor
and praying for 2 a.m.
And by the time it rolls around,
and you have been sick from the smell
of angsty undergraduates
and overcooked, pre-frozen meat patties,
you could collapse in the parking lot
and let the snow bury you till spring.
Marching across the lot,
into a grimy liquor store
purchasing your poison at a questionable bargain.
supper that warms you inside out,
takes you blissfully to sunny dreams,
leaving you in heap on the kitchen floor
every ******* morning.
Moving through your woozy wake-up call
of sprinting to the bathroom to surrender your shame,
and wipe away the traces of a cold night on a linoleum mattress,
your fingers slipped
while you attempt to piece together this china-doll visage
that you shattered every night
and the curling iron caught you on the neck,
a perfect metaphor for the day-in-day-out
that roasts you on a spit,
slow and searing,
wrinkled and
wrung out into the flames,
crisp and blackened
like the very meat you served me
between stale bread
this evening.
Don't succumb to our fires,
not in a place so fried by it's own hand.
Take your tips, little lady,
and climb aboard a Greyhound
Use those legs and skip to a different coastline.
breathe new air, kiss a new shore
and roast over the fire
somewhere with better *****
and a nicer view.
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
On my journey to the center of the world
Of phantoms dreams, I find all my thoughts with
Mysteries. The moon is shining bright and there
Must be a werewolf out tonight. In the dark I see
Ten people in white-a group of preachers, cursing the
Zombies, and I can also tell the vampires around
Every corner must be down below. Every night it's the
Same, the sanity of reason never seems to be
In anyone's brain...the full moon comes I hear
The wolfman call, this seems like a normal night
In fall, but then I can tell you it's just filled
With witches calls. They cook their roasts and cast
Bolts and hail, and I can hear them chant while I'm
On the speeding city Light Rail.
Jul 7, 2019
Jul 7, 2019 at 6:11 PM UTC
There is a silence now that you have gone
Somewhere - who knows where?
A silence of your suffering, your laughter,
Your excitement, your enjoyment of food.
A silence of your telephone calls, our lunches,
Your family get togethers, the Christmas puddings.
A silence of birthday cards, Sunday roasts,
Shopping trips, seaside walks and ice cream.
A silence filled with my children's laughter,
Summer picnic days and your flower garden.
A silence of your dementia voice, muddled
And forgetful in your inhabited, twilight world.
A silence of your tears and requests to go home
To safety and your memories of a past busy life.
A silence now that you are gone which I fill with
The voice you gave us to fight on your behalf,
That speaks with truth and grief and sadness
Screaming for your help, care and support.
There is a silence now that you have gone
It fills the deaf ears of those who won't hear
Your sorrow and our pain, who dismiss your
Diagnosis and replace it with a list of lesser
Tick boxes, low scores and minor symptoms.
A silence that is full of blood transfusions,
Infections, falls and fainting and fevers,
A silence that gave you leukaemia and took
Away your life, your heart and soul and being.
A silence that I promise to break very soon
For your silent voice needs to be loudly heard
So we can all rest in quiet, everlasting peace
Knowing you're protected by God's 'Continuing Care'
God Bless Auntie Joan x
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Simple things, like a slow start to a late morning
Like listening to old disco waft over the scent of Arabic roasts
The slight insistence of last night's indulgence not quite crawling across my brain
Like watching my capering daughter with her joy in a small rainbow umbrella
Small hands wanting to help with tasks only a little too large
The company of bright minds in Similar states of satiation
Full of the richness of hollandaise, eggs, the sharp oiled smoke of salmon
Simple things like hi-fiving as we collapse on the sofa, space cleansed, evening sun sprawled a crossed the wall
Golden Berlin sunset calling a riot of houseplants into soft violet contrast, shadows long
Simple like the way the sun catches your profile, and my breath catches in my throat..
Simple things
May 28, 2017
May 28, 2017 at 7:02 AM UTC
Enjoy your cuppa tea and coffee.
Sit back and relax.
The world is full of strife and corruption:
Untold Evil.
Yet it’s Paradise Earth.
We take for granted
Our timeless oceans,
Mountains and plains
Teeming with Life:
Forests and savannahs
Herds of Wildebeest
And prides of Lions.
Quaff that beer and lager,
Let your Whisky burn your breast.
See those panoramic views
On your television.
Get your mobile out
And check what’s going on
In Social Media Land.
Wallow in a bar of chocolate
And dream of stroking dogs and cats.
Indulge in Romantic Fantasy,
If you know what I mean,
And be mindful of everything
That gives you joy.
Make Life a Celebration:
Party Time,
Full of sporting
Laps of Honour
And harmonious choirs.
Smell that cooking:
Roasts, fries, breads and cakes.
Taste it in your mind.
To the sound of birdsong
And Eric Clapton.
After all,
You only live once.
Paul Butters
© PB 14\1\2018.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC
Beneath the calm
Of moonlit leaves,
Lying lovers
Shoot the breeze.
When in the moment
Of the mode,
Between the rhythm
Of stride and strode,
Shoot off your mouth
And not your load.
Corner thugs
Will deal you drugs
To smoke or snort
Or mainline shoot.
It's a slippery slope
Of lost freewill,
The up is high,
The trip's downhill.
You're in the cross hairs;
Drugs shoot to ****
The shooter feigns
Heeding advice,
So craps himself
On loaded dice.
The lawyers grin
Without remorse;
They shoot your savings
Throughout divorce.
The pool hall hustler
Cues his cool,
Looking for
A snookered fool.
Naively, when the children play,
Yell, “Ah shoot!” instead of say,
“Ah ****
We say that's okay.
Like saying, ****
When they can.
It's in the Bible, see?
Sports Illustrated
Puts out a shoot
Of photoshops
In skimpy suits.
When we say
We shoot meat,
Do we stalk roasts
On city streets;
From our hide
On city blocks,
Do we crossbow
Down our chops;
Do we rope *******
Then use buckshot?
It's euphemistic,
A rich spadeful:
"We shoot 'em all,"
And that's no bull.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC